


Cloudless Smile

by phantasmal_spectral



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Actual Poetry/Music will be added also, Depression, Drug Abuse, Gamzee's really fucked while Karkat gives him a second chance, Implied/Referenced Violence, M/M, Painting, Recreational Drug Use, References to a Gang?, Self-Loathing, i don't wanna spoil much so that's it, this is sort of a reboot to something i wrote on a different site, violence in general
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-04 10:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6654670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantasmal_spectral/pseuds/phantasmal_spectral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In order for the world to meet up with him again, he has to be Gamzee Makara, after all. Time passes and passes to another day, and Gamzee still feels the need to continue his old deeds. Without any connection toward any friends for what seems to be eternity, Gamzee feels alone in his big mansion until he walks down memory lane. (Humanstuck)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cloudless Smile

**Author's Note:**

> * * This is a reboot to a story I did on Fanfiction.net that I didn't finish. If you want to find the original story, ask me for the link, I guess. Don't want people to think I stole it. ;v; * * 
> 
> Wanted to give this idea another chance, so I rewrote the first chapter, and I plan on finishing it for real. Planning to rewrite each chapter while I'm working on the ending ones, but I'm not sure how long that'll take. I didn't know how to end this story at all a year ago, and gave up on it. But hopefully with this new reboot it can be a lot better, and with more of an audience, I hope you'll all enjoy it too. 
> 
> Thank you!

The bedroom of a man whose pockets are never empty was thrashed and disfigured of organization. The floor was covered with short-sleeved shirts and spotted baggy pants, not so much of a variety of clothes, but enough for this man to live. He gazed at his wall as he laid lazily upon his unkempt but heavenly soft bed. His mind was blank, and he looked at each painting of his wall one at a time.

The world presumed that Gamzee wasn't ready to give it a permanent greeting, so it blesses him. Although a clueless teenager at heart, Gamzee never notices the pattern, and proceeds to use the money while also having a job of his own. The anticipating of hearing his dad was the one of the great beauties of life. He was lonely in his vast mansion, but kept content as a rainless cloud. 

His gaze into his paintings was still locked. Glassy eyes looking through each color. Painting was always Gamzee's therapy, when things were too rough or when he couldn't control the tearful bouts of rage. He refused pills, refused speaking with ladies in big leather chairs and men with clipboards glued to their palms. He never thought he needed any help, and that his own remedies could heal the problems he didn't understand, nor wanted to. After a couple years of drug use, it was proven to him that his remedies didn't work, and it was at those times where he realized that change was needed. He couldn't think of anyway to glue the pieces of his soul he lost, but now he couldn't remember what they felt anyway. 

He started with smoking a couple blunts a day, nudging away school problems and his transparent dad. Seventeen years old, never being able to chill without having the horrid taste of weed dusted in his mouth, but most of all he was content. There were friends, music, and there was hope. As long as he kept up what he was doing. 

The loneliness that Gamzee could never escape from would settle inside him again. He would sit down on the couch one day and like a scorpion's sting: nothing was right. Nothing could _feel_ right. His words inside his head bumbled and flourished like an idiot's messy word jar. Fingers twitching for something to grasp.

_Maybe just one more time._

He didn't listen to himself, but he did regret it. The feeling of escaping out of the shell that was Gamzee Makara was a miracle to him. No addiction, just a long-awaited pray for release. His memories kept persisting in these paintings. 

The first painting he caught an eye upon was a clown. Its grey face paint dripping down upon its lopsided chin and its clothes plain and ratty, sitting on a stool with his back hunched and his face trying to shine. It was his first painting, of himself, and over the years he had gotten better at it. Gamzee's face was warped and contorted over the overuse of grey and white paint, and he remembered liking it for how it was years ago, but now he couldn't help but grimace. 

Except the paintings didn't bother him as much as to why he did them. During the time of the painting’s creation, he had joined a group of people that liked to paint their faces with face paint and were rich as hell. They were autocratic and cocky over this, and sneaked in drugs every chance they could get because they just _could_. Gamzee relished of being in the group as a teenager, although it was a secret to everyone else. His skills as an artist kept him as the pedestal of creativity in everyone's eyes. With this status and new meaning, he thought he could conquer life, conquer all the ghosts pounding down on his head everyday, finally letting his talents outweigh the feelings inside.

Yet, as a clueless teenager, he was wrong.

He was an outcast upon nowhere's face. The chains of school and the few things he knew was that that he couldn't stay high forever. The brightening deadly sun he hated being aware of was still there. His only oasis drop-kicked to a faraway land once he left his clique, left his identity. No tunes of soft music or speckles of paint ever wanting to be envisioned again. But yet that all had to be thrown in a small bin for hiding, as the only way to be with people and make friends was to be the happiest person he could be. Gamzee Makara. 

Life, at this moment, is steady and working for Gamzee Makara. Except at moments like this. These moments seem to be eternity. Maybe it could be? He didn’t know as he lit and pressed in his lips into the new fresh joint he had prepared for this moment.

 _Why not?_ He kept thinking to himself as the joint was resting on top of his drawer. It wasn’t an addiction of any sorts, he thought that too. He just loved being the happiest person to his friends and at the world. He couldn’t live without being Gamzee Makara: the mellow, dopey, caring, and most of all, drugged up person he could be.

He could sense and see the vast fog of smoke flourish at his face as he breathed out the puff of smoke. This was his first joint in a while, it wouldn’t really hurt at all.

He closed his eyes for a bit and breathed out happily. A content faint smile rested on his face. He could feel the beautiful miracles sprout out into his brain and settle its spot there. He sank his head into his pillow and stared up at the wall.

His gaze stretched and gave an interpretation of his mind’s creativity. Shapes of all bright colors appeared and broke apart. He puckered his lips and took another drag. It was slow for the composure and happiness to come in, but it was worth it for him. He stretched his arms side by side of him and felt happy after a long day. 

_“Dad, when are you gonna stay here?”_

_“Not in a long while. I’m sorry, Gamzee.”_

He starts to stir where he was relaxing. But he continued to stare at the wall, keeping his joint between his fingers, until closing his eyes, forgetting words and forgetting stress. He'll deal with that once he’s finished his joint, he most definitely needed that to be Gamzee. 

The more he smoked, he saw and felt the world’s head turn to him and smile like it should always smile in his mind; _Hey there long best friend_. He heard in the back end of his head, those words, those kind kind words. He stretched his legs and let himself be baked in the sun, his joints unhinged and his body free. It wasn’t after another ten minutes for him to be done with the smoke. He got up from his bed with an elongating smile forming upon his face, and threw away the remains of the joint. 

Now, as Gamzee Makara, he would visit his happy town of miracles and beauty. A world with second chances and a welcoming bright sun. Like it always should be.


End file.
